The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [81]
She got out of her car hunch-shouldered and skittish, ready to shoot first, question later. Nine P.M. Kimberly should be back in the relative safety of her apartment. Quincy had probably wrapped things up with his boss at Quantico and was now returning to New York City. Rainie just needed to finish up two last chores, then it would be her turn.
Instead, she stopped in the middle of the empty parking lot and searched the inky black depths for something she couldn’t name. Beyond her line of sight, she could hear cars humming by on the distant freeway. Four streetlamps bounced puddles of light off shiny black asphalt. The scent of honeysuckles and blackberries came to her, cloying and thick.
“Howdy, ma’am.”
She startled, then whirled, her right hand already reaching for her Glock.
Phil de Beers stood in the doorway of the building, the spitting image of his Internet photo as he gazed at her curiously. “Want to come in?” he asked politely.
She shivered violently and nodded.
“Brewed some coffee,” he said a moment later as he gestured her inside the building. “Don’t know what it is about thunderstorms, God knows they generate enough humidity to drown a rat, but they always make me feel in need of a good hot drink. Or whiskey. But on account of this being a professional visit, I thought I’d stick with coffee.”
“Bummer,” Rainie said, and earned a wide, flashing smile from the small, neatly dressed black man.
“You caught me. I do have some good ol’ sour mash. . . .”
“Yeah,” she said gloomily, “but I’m an alcoholic. I only get the coffee.”
“Bummer,” he echoed solemnly, and she decided that she liked him very much.
They went first to the tiny kitchenette shared by all the clients in the building. Phil splashed a delicate mist of whiskey into his brew. Rainie poured in cream and sugar until the private investigator began to laugh.
“I see some dependency issues,” he commented.
“Sugar and fat are socially acceptable drugs.”
“And you carry them well,” he assured her, conducting an unabashed sweep of her figure before leading her into his office. He took a seat behind his desk in a positively sinful red leather chair. That left a hard, spindly old kitchen chair that she figured was designed to discourage lengthy visits.
Phil held up a small glass dish. “M&M’s?” Rainie shook her head. He took a large handful. “I got some dependency issues, too,” he admitted cheerfully and munched on the candy while she finished taking inventory of his office.
The space wasn’t large but it was adequate. One wall contained two rows of bookshelves bearing thick volumes of Virginia State Law as well as piles of magazines. The other wall contained a gallery of framed prints. A diploma from the Virginia police academy. A variety of black and white photos showing de Beers with various men in suits. Probably important men in suits, Rainie thought, but now she was merely showing off her powers of deductive reasoning.
“Important person?” she asked, picking one photo at random.
“Director Freeh,” he said.
“Director Freeh?”
De Beers flashed her that wide grin. “Head of the FBI.”
“Oh yeah, that Director Freeh.” Rainie shut up and drank her coffee. It would’ve been better with whiskey.
“So,” de Beers said. “I’ve been watching Mary Olsen as you requested. Damn boring woman, Mrs. Mary Olsen. Didn’t leave her house yesterday or today.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“No, but I got a contact at the phone company. I’ll pull her records, give ’em a whirl. If you rattled the woman, she’s probably not passing the time merely watching TV.”
“She’s checking in with people.”
“There you go. I can get names, numbers, and addresses. Then what do you want me to do?”
“Fax me the phone numbers and names of whomever she’s called the most. I know a state trooper